


You'll Grow Out Of It

by sunkelles



Series: Femslash February 2017 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Arya Stark, F/F, Femslash February, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbian Sansa Stark, The Stark Sisters, compulsory heterosexuality, eventually bond over not being straight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9558692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: Sansa and Arya didn’t want to wed for different reasons.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so i started this last femslash february, i think. i got a comment on one of my sansaery fics asking if i was writing any more, and i decided to pull this out and finish it for fem feb.
> 
> it's not great, but i did what i wanted to with it. 
> 
> also, what is a plot? continuity? cohesiveness? i don't know them.

Sansa loves being a proper lady. She loves wearing dresses. She loves looking pretty. She loves sewing and small talk and balls, and she wants nothing more that to travel South and see the gorgeous castles and flowers. She thinks that being a lady must be even better there.

 

Sansa is a perfect little lady, except for one thing.

 

“I don’t want to get married,” Sansa tells her mother. And she means it, _at least not to a man._ She’s always found it easier to be around women than men, and she knows that the tug in her stomach when she and Jeyne play their kissing games is something that indicates more than friendship. If she were to marry anyone, Sansa would want to marry Jeyne Poole.

She doesn’t tell her mother this part.

“You’ll grow out of it,” her mother assures her, as she runs the brush softly through Sansa’s hair. Sansa doesn’t find this reassuring.  


 

She’s one and ten when she first hears the word “lesbian”, and the way that Beth Cassel says it makes it sound dirty and wrong. The meaning of the word, a girl who likes girls, doesn't sound dirty or wrong at all. It sounds wonderful. It sounds like liberation.

“Wait,” Sansa asks, “you mean women who want to wed women?” She ignores the ice in the other girl’s tone, latching onto the fact that there is a word for the way that she is. There are other girls that feel the same way.

“They can’t _wed,”_ Beth says, as if it’s obvious, “they can just bed. Isn’t it gross?” Sansa doesn’t respond, doesn’t think that she could make words come out if she wanted to.

 

Sansa cries herself to sleep, and tries to dream of her beautiful prince. Tries to dream of beautiful man who show her all of the Southron pleasures in the world, and make her his princess. No matter how much she tries, the face turns into Jeyne Poole’s.

  


Arya is eight years old, and she doesn’t want to get married. She’s not silent about it. She tells everyone who will listen. Jon, her father, her mother. Even Sansa, who she never tells anything. It’s almost comforting, that Arya doesn't want to wed either. Except that Arya is not a proper lady, not in the slightest. Sansa doesn't want to be like Arya at all.

 

She’s not sure why she’s eavesdropping. She’s sure that it’s not proper, ladylike behavior. She is still doing it though.

 

“I don't _want_ to get married,” Arya says. Their mother doesn’t listen. She ruffles Arya’s messy hair, and smiles down at her.

“You’ll grow out of it,” Arya’s mother tells her.

“I won’t,” Arya tells her.

“Sansa said the same thing when she was younger,” Catelyn says, “now she just wants to marry a prince.” At least Sansa knows everyone believes her change of heart.

“I’m not Sansa,” Arya says.

“Your father wasn’t my first choice, Arya,” she says, “but I love him more than anything. You’ll grow to love your husband too.” Arya frowns, but she doesn’t argue. She knows her mother won’t change her mind.

 

Arya doesn’t stop complaining, though. She tells everyone that she will not wed: Jon, Robb, her father, her septa, Sansa, even Sansa’s friends. Sansa’s friends are not kind.Sansa knows this, but she tries not to care. Arya isn't the right sort of lady. She needs to learn her place. Sansa tries not to think about how she isn't the right sort of lady either.

 

Beth calls her a lesbian, like it’s the worst curse word. Like it’s worse than kinslayer or turncloak. Sansa feels like she’s been stabbed, but she looks away. She doesn't say anything.

She knows that she _should_ . She’s heard her mother’s stories about how close she and Lysa were. She knows she should defend her sister, but Arya is Arya. Arya is not ladylike and she is not gentle or motherly, or abhor the things girls are _supposed_ to be. And Sansa doesn't know if she defends her if the girls will turn on her, will call her a lesbian too.

“I’m not a lesbian,” Arya says, “I don't like boys, but I don't like girls either.”

“Of _course_ you are,” Beth says, “so independent, so mannish. You don’t even want to get _married._ What else could you be?”

“Myself,” Arya says. Beth laughs, and Jeyne joins in awkwardly. Sansa does not, but she does not give herself much credit for that. She let it all happen anyways.

 

Years pass, and Sansa finds herself betrothed to the crown prince. She tries to be excited about this. Sansa wants to marry Joffrey. She does.

 

He’s gorgeous. Blonde and tall, with emerald green eyes. He comes with a key to the kingdom and the queenhood. Sansa wants to be queen, sincerely. She can make herself love him, she thinks. She listens to Jeyne ramble on about how wonderful it will be to be queen, and how much they’ll love King’s Landing. She tells her about how she will be her handmaiden.

Sansa falls asleep listening to her talk, and dreams of wrapping a direwolf cloak around her. She refuses to think about that more than she has to. 

  


She’s supposed to be with Joffrey. She’s supposed to be in love with him, and so she tells Cersei about her father’s plan. She dooms her father, then and there.They lop off his head, and both Jeyne Poole and Arya go missing. Sansa is left a lonely, frightened hostage.

 

She realizes that Joffrey is a monster, and even if she had loved him, she wouldn’t any more.

 

Margaery Tyrell is kind to her. It almost feels like she wants more, but Sansa dares not assume. She knows how most women react to the prospect, Margaery, however, subtly hints at wanting more. And eventually, she gets it.

 

They’re lying in bed, looking up at the stone ceiling.

“So,” Margaery says, voice flirty, “I suppose you’re not a proper lady anymore.”

“I already knew I wasn’t,” she says. It comes out bitterer than she’d meant, and Margaery looks over to her in concern.

“You knew?” Margaery asks. Sansa nods. She thinks of how to tell this story, something that she’s never told anyone, something she thought she would never say out loud.

“There was this girl,” Sansa says with a wistful smile, “her name was Jeyne. She was the steward’s daughter, and I loved her. I brought her to King’s Landing. We thought she would be my handmaiden.” Her voice cracks a little on that last part.

“I don’t know what happened to her.” Margaery takes her hand, and holds it softly.

“I think Joffrey did something to her,” Sansa says, her voice breaking. She doesn’t love her husband, but she’s _so glad_ to have him instead of Joffrey.

“Joffrey can’t get rid of me,” Margaery promises. Sansa nods, and Margaery engulfs her lips in a kiss.

 

Sansa spends blissful months kissing Margaery, melting into her arms. They make each other laugh in the gardens, and hold hands, pretending just to be lady companions. Everything is wonderful until it falls apart.

 

Joffrey can’t get rid of Margaery, but he can get rid of her.

 

Years pass, undercover as Alayne Stone, but eventually Winterfell becomes hers. It’s a long, difficult, lonely journey. If she were to tell it, she doubts anyone would believe her. Eventually, she takes Winterfell. Eventually, Margaery works her way to her, and she has the woman she loves and her ancestral home. She tries to make do.

She’s less deeply depressed than she used to be, but she still feels a dull ache, like the phantom pain an amputee experiences. She still does not have her family.

Her family lies dead, scattered across the continent. She wishes that years ago, she had known what were to come. She wishes she would have held tighter to her family, not been so eager to travel South. She wishes she had not isolated Arya.

She heard about a girl that claimed to be Arya, the one the Boltons used to win Winterfell. That girl fled to the Wall though, never to be seen again. She does not know who that was, but she hardly cares. It was not her sister. She knows that she has no claim to wish for Arya to be with her, but she still does.

Sansa wishes a lot of things that she cannot have. She wishes that Margaery were here with her, but she does not know what became of the other woman. Her men tell her that a strange woman has come, claiming that she has to see Sansa. Sansa tells them to let her in.  


A woman with a long face, tangled, black hair and solemn grey eyes looks her right in the face. She looks just like the statue of Lyanna in the caverns.

“Arya?” Sansa asks. The woman smiles. She looks unpracticed at it, but it still lights up her face. She nods.

 Sansa feels tears welling in her eyes, and she engulfs her long lost sister in a hug. The girl stiffens, but then she softens in Sansa’s grip. She wraps her arms around her, and they hold each other for a long time.

Sansa introduces Margaery to Arya as her friend, and a refugee from the chaos in the South. Arya nods, and takes it in stride.

 

Things begin again, and Margaery kisses her beneath the furs, joking that she might leave Sansa for her wild, formidable sister. Sansa laughs, and kisses her back even harder than before.

 

They all settle into a new, easy routine. They try not to talk about the past, be it King’s Landing or Winterfell, Arya offers nothing of her time between. Both Sansa and Arya remember how their relationship was before, but they don’t address it much. They were both so glad to have family back that they didn’t want to tarnish their nostalgic by dredging that up again.

 

However good they are at avoiding that topic, Arya was bound to breach an awkward topic eventually. She’s brash and she’s blunt. It was alway something that Sansa disliked about her when she was younger, but now she realizes she was just jealous. Arya has always been unapologetically herself. She never minced her words or felt like she took up too much space. She was always just herself.

 

At this moment, though, Sansa still sympathizes with her past self. She really doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“You don’t have a husband?” Arya asks her.

“I don’t.”

“You could have any man in the kingdom, as lady of Winterfell. I remember that you wanted to marry so badly.” Sansa laughs at that, bitterly.

“Joffrey taught me how foolish I was.” Arya sends her a soft look.

“Not all men are Joffrey.”

“I’m fine, Arya, really.”

“I just want you to be happy. I remember you ranting about how romantic those songs were. I just- I can’t imagine you not wanting that.”Responding to Margaery’s advances had been a risk. Telling Arya seems downright suicidal, but she wants to. Seven, she wants to. She even thinks her sister would understand.

“Remember years ago, when Beth Cassel called you a lesbian?” Sansa asks hesitantly.

“Yeah,” she says, “what sort of an insult is that anyway? Like oh, you’re not a proper lady so you must want to fuck them." Sansa feels her blood go cold. This was a bad idea, she can just _feel_ it.

“What do you mean?” She hopes that Arya can’t tell how weak her voice is.

“That’s not an insult. I don’t see anything wrong with it. If she wanted to insult me, she should have called me a craven or something.” Sansa feels herself beam. That just seems so _Arya._

“No one would _ever_ call you a craven,” Sansa says. Arya is the bravest person she has ever met.

“Why do you bring it up?” Sansa _could_ make something up. She could leave it at Arya not thinking lesbians are awful people, and just live her life that way. But she doesn’t.

“I am one,” Sansa says softly. Arya doesn’t even look that surprised.

“Margaery Tyrell, huh?” Sansa blushes.

“Yeah,” Sansa says, nodding.

“She seems good for you,” Arya says, “I’m glad you found her.”

“Did you ever find a guy?” Sansa asks. Arya shakes her head.

“A girl?” Arya keeps shaking her head.

“No one?” Sansa asks.

“I think I don’t like people,” Arya says, “any of them.” Sansa doesn’t know what that means, not really. But she’ll respect it, her sister is entitled to live her life her own way.

“They said we’d grow out of it,” Sansa says. Arya laughs.

“You got that talk too?” Sansa nods.

“I guess we haven’t,” she said.

“We never will,” Arya says simply, “there isn’t anything to grow out of.” Sansa smiles. She thinks her sister might be onto something.


End file.
